The Origin of the Deductionist
by misscassietaylor
Summary: Sherlock and John are pushed past their limits when they're launched into the nightmare-ish world of Silent Hill. How will they cope with this huge change of their trip to meet Lestrade? Would they even survive the trek across the town? Very strictly based off of Silent Hill: Origins. It follows the same story line, but with Sherlock and John at it instead. Enjoy!
1. EPILOGUE

The deep blue truck sped around the corner, tires splashing the puddles in the gutter of the road. However, the sky was now clear and the outside world clear of rain or precipitation of any kind. The pair inside were growing weary of the long car ride that they had both endured so far, and dreaded the longer route ahead.

"Sherlock claims he knows a shortcut to your location, Lestrade. Though he's not familiar with the area. I'm not sure how I feel about that." John casted a sideways glance at the consulting detective at the wheel who stubbornly ignored the comment and continued driving, eyes trained blankly at the road. There was a pause. "Right, well, there's a road that cuts right through an old town. Silent Hill or something like that?" He shrugged, neither caring about the name of the town, nor bothering to correct himself. "Right, well, we'll see how it goes. I'll call you back within the next few hours." And with that, John clicked the call off and tossed his phone on the dashboard.

The two rode in silence for a few minutes, and they came across a wooden, weather-worn sign that read: BRAHMS 13MILES. Sherlock inhaled. "Following Silent Hill. We'll cut the time in half John." John grimaced, and stared out the window, not replying. It was beginnning to darken, adn the sun was settling over the horizon; the sky darkening and a vague later of fog settling in over the road. They went on for a few more minutes, until Sherlock begged John to let him stop over for a smoke break. John reluctantly agreed and he found himself leaning against the car next to Sherlock, inhaling the second hand smoke with a small frown resting on his lips.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath from the cigarette, and leaned over to put it out against the car, but something in the mirror caught his eye. He paid it no mind, concluding that it was simply a trick of the lack of adequate light and the amount of fog that covered his vision, but then he stopped dead when he saw the figure _again_. He whipped around a saw a girl about a half mile down the road.

"John," Sherlock whisperd, "look." He gestured down the road a ways, and John looked in the direction, tilting his head at the girl. She looked no more than 12 years old, wearing a deep purple dress with a lace-like collar. The dress had long sleeves that covered her wrists, and was just as modest in the length of the skirt. John took a step forward.

"Hey, you alright?" He called to the girl, who only turned to look at him for only a few seconds before turning her back and running down the road with no reply. "No, wait!" John called, but to no avail, the girl kept dashing down the asphalt, slowly disappearing amongst the fog. John started to run after her, but Sherlock caught his shoulder.

"What are you doing," Sherlock looked into John's eyes, with that expression he used when John was doing something sentimental that Sherlock didn't understand.

"She might need help, Sherlock!" Sherlock stood there for a moment, thinking. He then released his grip and briskly walked along with John, descending away from the familiarality of their vehicle and followed the obvious path to find the mysterious girl.


	2. Chapter 1

The pair walked for a credible amount of time, turning on the curves and trudging along. John spotted a sign in the distance, much like the one for Brams a few miles back. He couldn't quite make it out in the fog, but when they got closer, he saw that it read: Welcome to Silent Hill. He glanced over at Sherlock a split second who seemed calm as ever. They slowed to a comfortable walk, staying silent and listening to their own footfalls against the pavement.

"Do you smell smoke?" John sniffed the air a few times, his head tilting his head up and furrowing his eyebrows.

"I've smelled it for the past half hour." Sherlock voiced smoothly, squinting against the thickening fog which seemed to be darkening in colour. John immediately jumped into a brisk jog, running further down the road. Sherlock, not wanting to lose his friend in the dangerous and blinding conditions, ran after him. Having such a long stride helped, and he quickly caught up with John and ran alongside him. Within minutes, John slowed his jog and stopped right in his place, staring up at the scene in front of him. Sherlock stopped as well, a few feet ahead of John, the same awed expression on his face as he assessed the situation. It was then that it clicked: The fog wasn't fog. It was all smoke.

Off the road to thier right was a tall, old wooden home that was not a home any longer, but a santuary of flames. The fire was eating at the rotted wood, quickly finding fuel for it's hunger. The flames licked out of windows, doors and any crack in the wood it could find, greedily engulfing the home. Sherlock spotted a figure at the side of the house. It wasn't the girl he saw from before, this figure was much too large to have been a child. He couldn't quite tell the gender, either. The figure slid from view, and disappeared behind the house. When Sherlock looked to John again, he was gone, and he looked over just in time to see John dashing in the firey home. Sherlock's eyebrows raised and he followed his friend, worried about the flames and the unstable state of the home.

"John, have you lost your mind?" Sherlock called over the roar of the flames. John turned around and faced Sherlock, sweat having already glistening on his brow and upper lip.

"There's someone in here! Still alive!" John replied before turning his back again and retreating back into the burning halls of the home.

Sherlock took in his surroundings while searching the bottom floor for the live being John had claimed to be in the home. _There's no way anyone could survive being in here. I'm dying slowly by simply being in here. What caused this? Obviously it wasn't natural. The oxygen is depleting. Whoever is here should be near death by now. I'm lightheaded with only moments of being here._ Sherlock walked the halls and searched the rooms with a quick pace, sweeping his eyes and keeping his ears perked for any sort of human-like sounds. He was about to find John to take him out of this death-trap when he heard the very man's voice calling out.

"Sherlock, I've found them! They're up here!" Sherlock heard the voice from above him. He found the stairs he had previously spotted and dashed up them, finding John at the room at the end of the first hallway. The room opened up to a large area, large pieces of burning wood having fallen and blocking easy access to John. Around him were scattered white candles. _Ah-hah._ As he came closer to John, he noticed that the body was surrounded by identical white candles. Most of them were still lit, which Sherlock found slightly humorous and he couldn't help but smile. _Some sort of ritual._ Upon further inspection—also, what Sherlock assumed, what caused John to hesitate at touching the person in the first place—Sherlock noticed a red sort of symbol beneath the burnt body. The body was definitely still alive, writhing against the painful burning. Sherlock didn't recognize the symbols that were inside the circle, but he paid them no mind; his immediate priority was this person and getting John out alive.

John reached down to pick the person up, but jumped back when it spoke. "Let me burn," it had said in a raspy, choked voice. Sherlock stared down at the body, in complete battle with his mind and his eyes. The doctor waited a few moments, gathering his courage and bending over to pick up the person, despite their struggles to get away.

"You're coming with us," he had said and firmly kept the person in his arms. They fell limp, giving up and letting itself get carried out by the charitable man. John rised with the person in their arms and knew by their frail frame that they didn't have much time. Their body would soon loose consciousness and slowly die from oxygen shortage. John felt the skin beneath his own, and it felt extremely warm, almost burning. He, too, questioned how this person could be conscious much less alive. They must be in excruciating pain, he thought, and his heart quickly went out to this person.

He didn't much remember the way out of the home, but he noticed the heat of the building quickly rising, parts of the roof falling at random, and nearly getting hit by flying sparks. He had to, at one point, dodge a falling piece of debris and nearly hurt both himself and the person in his arms in the process. John still couldn't tell by glance the gender of whom he was carrying, but he saw that whatever hair the person had before had now gone, the flesh beneath having burned at an extremety.

"Sherlock, we need to get out _now_," John called, his breath quickening, and finding it hard to speak at all with fluency.

Sherlock ignored and failed to reply, remembering the way, but also being confused by the added debris that threw off his direction. He turned a corner, and a piece of the flooring snapped and broke off, sending both him and John tumbling a whole floor below. He tried his best to land on his feet, but one foot slipped beneath him and he landed right on one of his knees. John hadn't been so lucky, as he landed on his back with a sickeningly loud thud. He heard John groan along with himself, but neither stayed to pity themselves or nurse their wounds. John raised himself to his feet with much effort, but found himself lightheaded and stumbling when he came to his full height. He caught Sherlock's eye and nodded. They both trudged their way out of the house, taking a few confused turns but eventually making their way from the burning home.

The outside air was a relief to them and their skin was met with a generously cool breeze, the heat mostly on their backs. Both men walked a few feet from the house before John fell to his knees and let the younger person roll from his arms. Sherlock fell as well, and his head hit the ground hard. John turned to see that Sherlock was no longer conscious and he crawled over weakly.

"Sherlock," he rasped, before falling next to the detective, his eyes falling shut. The last thing he heard of his consciousness was a faraway sound of a siren, much similar to one of bombs or viscious weather, then his mind went blank.


	3. Chapter 2

When the light faded into their vision and vague shapes and figues swam into view, Sherlock and John found themselves much further from where they had fallen outside the home on fire. They were now on the side of the road. Sherlock was slung across a bench, and John had the unfortunate residence of the concrete below. When John lifted his head, he let out a pain-ridden groan and leet his head drop again, his eyes squeezing shut. Sherlock blinked a few times before jerking himself upright, ignoring all the pain that currently was pulsing up and through his spine and muscles. He quickly looked around to find John below them.

"John," he voiced, tone deep and concerned. "John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked, bending over to see the doctor's face.

"Where are we?" John wined after a few silent moments, his question a struggle to get out completely. Sherlock chose not to answer, and he stood up, looking around. To his right, he saw a large sighn that filled a portion of the brick wall that was settled behind them. Curious, he walked over to it and immediately saw that it was a map.

"We're in Silent Hill," Sherlock whispered, more to himself. He raised his hand to the map and let his fingers run over the filthy plexyglass that covered the old paper. He turned around and surveyed the area. The fog was worse now, but he didn't smell any smoke. He reasoned that it was actually fog this time, though his brain said otherwise, it being the same grey consistency as before. He waved the thought away and let his eyes narrow on specifics. Debris from cars, buildings and exterior decor littered the sides of the streets. _It's all abandoned, but it looks of devistation. What happened?_ He thought of maybe bombs or invasions, but it all looked too nonchalant; like the citizens decided to one day pack up some of their things and leave their life behind.

John appeared next to him, stumbling and holding his head. "Where's that child?" John asked, looking at the map behind Sherlock, then up to Sherlock's face, squinting against the dull light.

"I'm not certain," Sherlock said, letting his chin drop to his chest.

John himself had many questions. Initially one being how the _bloody hell_ hewas standing seemingly miles away from where he had fallen without even a note or a figure in the distance to say who brought them here and why. But first and foremost, he wanted to know the girl—he had no realized—was coping with her severe wounds. There was no way she could have survived without immediate medical attention.

"Anyone sane enough to have seen her would have taken her to a hospital or medic or something like that, right?" John reasoned to himself. Sherlock tilted his head shortly and glanced at John, noticing the sudden reguard of gender.

"I suppose. There's a hospital just a block or so away from our current position." Sherlock said, turning to look at the map alongside John.

"How do you know where-" Sherlock cut him off without words and pointed at a specific area to the very left edge of the map. Just a block ahead, and a bit of a turn, there was the hospital that Sherlock promised would be there. "Koontz Street," he murmured. John pursed his lips and looked from side to side before breaking into a brisk stride at the left. Sherlock immediately followed, not comfortable with John's motives, but keeping his concerns unvoiced.

They walked for a few moments in silence and sure enough when they turned to their right, they saw a small entry way in the brick wall, and through the threshold they could see a weather-worn white sign above a double-door entrance to a large building, and in big, bold red lettering, it read: Alchemilla Hospital. John stopped in his tracks a moment, and heaved a sigh. Sherlock wasted no time and continued the walk to the doors, stopping at the top of the few stairs and holding the door open for his friend. John nodded to him and emerged into the hospital.

When they were both inside, Sherlock let the door swing closed, but immediately felt cased, like there was no way of exiting this building out of comfort. He scowled at the wooden door before turning to examine the area. The hall was deserted. Papers flew askew, there was not a single person in sight, and every surface had a thin, faint layer of dust covering it, giving the area a ghostly veiw. John was leaning over a desk—probably for clarical—when Sherlock spotted a map on the right wall a meter or so ahead. He walked up to it, making to memorize the map before it was ripped before his eyes and John folded the paper and stuffing it in his pocket.

"No time for that, you think?" He said, a small smile on his lips. John walked down the hall and Sherlock followed, and for once in his life, he was lost. The feeling of the town in general was unnerving, and it seemed like a secret that Sherlock did not want to know but was dying to find out anyway. As they walked the hall, they came across no one, and it was a bit off-putting. As horrible as it was that the town had been deserted, the desertion of an advanced clinic seemed even more hopeless than John imagined. They came to the end of the hall and turned the corner to see a suited man with his back to them, staring at the double doors to what Sherlock believed was a lift or elevator. He heard John sigh of relief before slowing his pace and stopping.

"Sir, sir..Do you work here?" John asked, letting his voice raise. The man slowly turned to face the two and he let his arms wrap around to his back and held them there

"I'm sorry?" The man voiced, his tone calmer and lower than Johns.

"There was a girl, she was hurt. She had burns all over her body!" John was becoming a bit rushed and frantic. "Where is she? Someone must have taken her here!"

"Are you her father?" The man asked, tilting his head ever so.

"No, no, I.." John gestured to Sherlock, "We were the ones to get her out of the fire she was in. Where is she?"

"I'm sorry," The man made to turn back to the elevator. "We've acquired no new patients within the last two or three days. I cannot help you." The elevator pinged and the doors opened. The man stepped in.

"But sir!" John called, stepping forward.

"I'm _sorry_, but I am in quite a rush." The doors to the elevator closed and the two could hear the creaks and groans of the lift ascending. John let out a small groan of frustration and turned to Sherlock who quickly reached out and pressed the button to call the elevator back down.

"He knows something," Sherlock said with a frown.

The elevator came within a minute or so and the two stepped in,survevying their surroundings with vague interest_. _There was a gurney to their left, smudged with brown and a bit of red; nothing alarming for a hospital, though the amount of reddish color was a bit perturbing._ Only three floors? _Sherlock tilted his head at the display of floor call buttons before he hit the button for number two, jabbing it with his finger. The lift shook to life and he felt them both being pulled up a floor, anxious for what the doors would open up to. Sherlock hadn't felt this fear in a long time, and it excited him as well as terrified him. He wanted to both know every detail of this phenominal town as well as hide away from it forever, keeping it deleted and distant from his mind for the rest of his natural life. His toes clenched in his shoes, and he could feel John bouncing on his heels next to him.

The lift opened to a small room with a door on the left side. _Odd, most hospitals open to long hallways. _Sherlock waved the thought away, noticing that he was maybe looking too far into every detail. Not everything is what it seems. Never make assumptions before you have all the details.

He and John opened the door, and immediately noticed something horribly wrong. There was a figure—a female nurse by the looks of her outfit—at the end of the hallway. Both men were stunned into silence as they watched the woman convulse and quiver jerkily. When the woman turned to face them, Sherlock was stunned to his place and served not a single purpose, having been shocked out of his realm. The nurse charged at them, a disgusting strangled gurgle fighting its way out of her mouth. John readied his fists, the look of pure horror set on his face, but ready to take on what he had been thrown. When John took the first swing at the..the creature, Sherlock's mind clicked into place. Everything about this told him to stop and assess: there was _logic_ here. This is obviously a woman, but there's something wrong. Something with _explanation._ Sherlock spotted a mallet resting on the gurney ahead of them and quickly snatched it up. He hit the woman on the head a few times, and John brough the creature to it's knees, and it fell to it's stomach. The twitching became more violent, and John did the only thing that came to mind. He stomped on the thing's neck, which snapped with a repulsive crack and the twitching stopped.

The two men stood for a moment, out of breath and stunned by what they just had to endure. They caught each other's eye and they grinned at each other, nervous laughs relieving them of the tense atmosphere. John spotted a torch on the floor and he picked it up, clicking it on. He shined it on his friend.

"My God, you look like shit." John said with a laugh, knowing that he probably looked just as horrible if not worse. Both men laughed again. Sherlock bent over the body they had just put to rest and reached out to touch it and roll the body over to examine what exactly this thing was. It was most definitely human—or it used to be, at lease. _What are you._ Sherlock asked himself before rising to his feet again only to be met with a curious glance from John. "Seriously." he breathed, shaking his head.

Sherlock walked towards a door—both minding the mangled and John's comment—and turned the handle and pushed. Something was blocking it. He kicked at it and flung himself to it, but it refused to give even the faintest resistance. John caught on and brought himself to try the second door, which opened with very little hinderance. Sherlock scowled vaguely and followed the doctor. It opened into a tiled room, much like a shower room, but there were beds. Maybe a large area to treat many patients at once? John looked along the walls, and noticed the antibiotics in the medicine cabinet. He recognized a few of them from Afghanistan, and one or two from his current—was it current?-occupation. When he turned, he saw that Sherlock found a note, or something of the kind, on a wrinkled sheet of paper. John stepped up and read the note for himself.

_Preliminary diagnosis:_

_Third-degree burns, patient is unconscious...Something has prevented damage spreading to the internal organs...Tissue damage is limited to the epidermis and extremities of limbs._

_How is this possible?_

"Prevented—what!" John nearly shouted, not believing what he was reading on this unorthodox diagnosis. He snatched the paper from Sherlock and read the note over again and again. Sherlock left his side momentarily before returning again, carrying a few bottles he had gotten from the medicine cabinet from across the room. Sherlock shoved a bottle into John's hand and uncapped the second for himself. John read the label. "Morphine?" He asked the other with incredulence. "You're kidding," He said, letting his hand fall to his side.

"Drink a bit, John. You look horrible and you must be in pain." Sherlock took a veyr conservative drink of the liquid before pocketing it. "Sit," he commanded, gently leading John to a gurney behind him.

"What..I—Sherlock, I'm fine!" John protested, but sighed and gave up the fight. Sherlock was one of the most stubborn man he had ever shaken hands with and he knew the fight would only exhaust him. Sherlock picked up a damp cotton ball from his pocket—already prepared by the one and only himself previously, John guessed—and he began dabbing at John's face with it. John winced against the sting, not realizing that he had actually been cut and exposed. He grit his teeth and let Sherlock work. Once finished, Sherlock discarded the cotton to the floor and produced a second for himself. He dabbed at his own face, knowing where every cut had been, and seeming unperturbed by the stinging John knew to be true. When John would try to take over the care for his friend, he only recieved a stubborn scowl for his efforts and John eventually gave up and began pacing around the room. He looked around to see a large mirror that took up a very generous protion of the tiled wall. Sherlock headed for the door and John to the mirror. He noticed small etches on the mirror, obviously intentional, of symbols he had never seen in his life. Actually, he recognized _one. _It was one of the symbols inside the red painted circle where the girl was back in the burning house. He hummed out of curiosity and reached out to the mirror.

Sherlock turned to face his friend, but saw that he was at the mirror he had previously noticed across the room. He frowned when he saw that the other parallel side of the mirror seemed a bit...darker. Mysteriously so. He blinked and then he saw the girl that they were chasing on the road, the one in the violet dress and the white collar. She was touching her hand to the mirror, right where John was about to touch as well. "John!" Sherlock called, and John jumped, looking to the detective.

"There's odd symbols on this mirror, Sherlock, come here." John said, turning his face to the mirror again. He jumped and chills went through his body with violence when he saw the very same girl, his fingers seemingly centimeters—no, milimeters—away from his own touch. He jumped back a few inches and the girl began to fade, her figure running away. "No! Wait!" John pressed both his hands to the mirror in one last desperate attempt to get in contact with the girl, but something happened. His muscles began to twitch and his skin tingled restlessly. He felt himself being sucked from the stomach against the mirror, and his vision blurred, darkened, blackened then reappeared again, but this time he was in the darker world, looking in at Sherlock. Sherlock shouted and pushed himself against the glass, but nothing happened. Sherlock didn't disappear and reappear like he had hoped. He was on his own in this seemingly alternate world, and no sure way of getting back. He pressed his hand against the glass as Sherlock hit at it with his own, but to no avail, the sensation was not brought back and he was trapped in this God-forsaken room with only a flashlight, map and a bottle of morphine to hold him over.


End file.
